


Status Quo

by SyntheticEuphoria



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Bloodplay, Consensual Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Injury, M/M, Snuff, Sticky, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:46:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticEuphoria/pseuds/SyntheticEuphoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“As far as last requests go, that was rather mundane. I do hope the rest of your little death scene is a bit more dramatic.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Snorting, Megatron gave the mech a dry look. Then it turned contemplative. ‘Last requests,’ hm? Now there was a thought…</i>
</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Warnings: Snuff, Violence, Sticky Sex (Consensual, believe it or not)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Status Quo

**Author's Note:**

> Utterly self-indulgent snuff fic.  
> Because the image would NOT get out of my head.

It burned. Not just the physical pain of it, but the shame. There should not have been, he knew – the hole in his abdomen was a wound gained in combat, and therefore his death would be honorable. But it galled him to know that he was going to die, not only before he’d won the war – the war he’d fought so long and so hard for – but simply because some grunt from the other side had gotten one good shot in. Who would have thought that it would be the Praxan sniper to take him out? He couldn’t even remember the mech’s name... It had a color in it, perhaps; a color that did not match his paint.

Megatron wished that he could remember his name. It would be nice to know who’d killed him, at the least. He also wished that he could move. His motor functions were gone. He could feel the fluids seeping from his chest, out through the matching hole in his back, creating an increasingly large wet spot beneath him, but he could not so much as raise a hand to impede the flow. It was so very frustrating, knowing that he was dying and not being able to do anything about it. He had comm.’d Soundwave, of course; and Hook, too. It was unclear if the messages had gone through, but it was still possible that one of them would get to him in time to save his life. Although…

…Well, Megatron wasn’t going to hold out hope that one of them would come running in dramatically at the last moment. He was too pragmatic for that sort of foolishness. The Lord of the Decepticons would fight for his life, never one to give in to fate’s whims, but that did not mean he would whimper in fear of death, filling his processor with ridiculous fantasies of rescue. He would do what he could, which was very little, to slow his demise – auto-lock what fuel cells he had access to without medical overrides, call in those he trusted enough to not outright murder him in his moment of weakness – but he would accept whatever the outcome was.

Acceptance. What a ridiculous term, _acceptance_. No, he did not like the sound of that, no matter what he’d just told himself. Acceptance implied that whatever happened was inevitable. Nothing was ever _inevitable_ unless Megatron willed it to be so. He growled, and it was a low, broken sound to his audios, hitching in odd places. Honestly, he wasn’t sure if there was damage to his vocalizer or the auditory-receptors themselves. The error messages were scrolling across his HUD too quickly for him to keep up with, filling his sight with lines of flashing red glyphs.

If only he hadn’t fallen into this hole. Or cellar. Or whatever-this-was. It halfway looked like it had been a building at one time, but with all the chaos of battle, whatever had been here clearly wasn’t any more. There were both wooden and metal support structures within his somewhat limited field of vision, and bits of broken planking were scattered amongst the rubble where he lay. Wherever he was, it hid him from those who still engaged in the battle above. This was good, in that the enemy wouldn’t find him unless someone stumbled down here by accident, or the little Praxan who’d shot the hole through his chest came looking for him. This was bad, because it meant that his own soldiers would take just that little bit longer to find him; assuming that they didn’t just shoot him themselves, seeing an opportunity for a power-grab.

And speaking of treacherous, back-stabbing wretches…

“Well, what do we have here?”

Megatron growled again, and was annoyed to feel that same catching in his vocals. Definitely not the audios, then – Starscream’s nasally voice was, to his immense regret, perfectly audible.

“My Lord, whatever are you doing down here, all alone?”

The smirk in the Seeker’s voice made him want to wring the mech’s neck; watch him dangle from his fist and claw at the massive black hand, leaving streaks of blue behind as the energon flow was cut off from his processors, primary air-intake squeezed shut and making his CPU overheat. He’d done it before, many times, and never grown tired of watching how the flier squirmed, gagging as his glossa lolled out and oral lubricants seeped from the corners of his mouth, all while his optics began to roll back into his helm.

Starscream’s expression faltered, just a little, seeing the intensity of the look his master was giving him. He was right back to full sneer in an instant. “Poor dear, you look a mess. All that energon leaking out of you…” The Seeker clucked his glossa against the roof of his mouth and shook his head in mock disappointment. “Too bad the battle’s moved on. Everybody’s so very far away, now. And here you are, down in a hole; practically buried already. That’s what the organics on this planet do with their deceased, you know. They bury them. Well, that’s what a lot of them do, anyway. Some burn them, some send them out to sea on little rafts… It’s actually rather fascinating, all the rituals they associate with death.” As Starscream spoke, he moved closer, always with that sway to his hips, the sashay that was the mech’s trademark, every bit as much as the smirk was.

Megatron tried to speak, and got a garbled crackle of static and almost-words for his trouble. He felt certain that his Second would be able to appropriately translate the look of disgust and hatred on his face, though.

Pursing his lips into a momentary pout, Starscream cocked one hip and crossed his arms. The look faded and he _leered_ , leaning forwards. “Luckily for you, I happened to see that little nobody shoot you. You’ll be happy to know that he’s currently quite the worse for wear.”

Hmph. The way he stated it, the white mech was clearly trying to make it sound like he’d been the one to inflict the damage. Megatron was willing to bet that Starscream had merely watched someone else take the Praxan out, and promptly flown over to where he’d seen his leader fall. He coughed – a hacking, broken sound that made his frame judder painfully – and forced the words out, heedless of the continued static lacing each syllable: “What’s… his name?”

Starscream tilted his head, optic ridges furrowing in a cross between confusion, disdain, and amusement. “Here you are, bleeding out all over the ground, great big hole through your chest – I can see your spark chamber, by the by – barely able to speak, and you ask what his _name_ is?”

Megatron grinned, and he knew that the pain that twisted the expression would only make it all the more terrifying. The resulting look of nervousness, even quickly hidden as it was, made him feel quite pleased.

The jet huffed, turning slightly to one side, arms still crossed. “Bluestreak. The grey and red Datsun with the great big rifle is Bluestreak.”

His grin became a contented, if somewhat hard-edged, smile. He’d been right about the color in his name, then. Megatron had no idea why that pleased him as much as it did.

Starscream watched him warily for a moment, then the expression metamorphosed right back into a smirk. “As far as last requests go, that was rather mundane. I do hope the rest of your little death scene is a bit more dramatic.”

Snorting, Megatron gave the mech a dry look. Then it turned contemplative. ‘Last requests,’ hm? Now there was a thought… Both of Starscream’s optic ridges twitched upwards as he saw another shift in his dying leader’s expression. Now it was Megatron’s turn to leer, and he made a show of slowly drawing his gaze up from the tips of the Seeker’s shapely thrusters to the top of his helm. He coughed again and spoke. “You always… were a… pretty thing…”

The optic ridges nearly shot up to his helmet, right before he laughed. The sound was both mocking and delighted. “ _Now_ you choose to notice? All these stellar cycles, and _now_ you finally notice that I’m attractive?”

Megatron merely gave him a bemused look in response, one side of his mouth crooked upwards. Something sparked inside of him, probably dangerously close to the leaking energon, and he knew he hadn’t fought back the wince of pain in time.

Starscream smiled, and it was the smile of a predator. The sashay came back, the seeker making a show of theatrically placing his steps along the sides of one long, outstretched, black and silver limb. Starscream’s legs crisscrossed as he stepped closer, left pede stepping on the right side, right pede stepping on the left, before he moved to delicately straddle Megatron’s hips. Optics half-shuttered, he gazed into the ragged, gaping wound, and lightly traced one clawed fingertip around the edges.

The larger Decepticon twitched, unable to do much more than that. But that didn’t seem to bother the Seeker at all, his gaze fixated on the hole as he made another round with his finger, before looking upwards to lock gazes with the mech who had always been above him, standing in the way of his ambition. Megatron had a feeling that he knew how this was going to turn out. He was less bothered by it than he thought he would be. “Either… rip my spark out…” He had to pause to cough again. “Or overload me… so hard… it gutters.”

The white jet snickered. “Still giving me orders, even now, hm? Oh, well. I suppose I can grant that much to a dying mech. Death by overload… I suppose that would make your parting sufficiently memorable. Not necessarily dignified…” The finger was now tracing along Megatron’s jawline, and it made his face tingle. “But then, you just got shot down by a pathetic Autobot grunt, landed in the blown-out remains of a glorified basement, and are now subject to my whims. I suppose, at this point, you’ll take whatever consolation you can get.”

Megatron snarled and attempted to bite the finger still trailing along his cheek. He could barely turn his head, though, and Starscream laughed at him, continuing the exploration.

“Can you even open up on your own, I wonder?” Starscream slid down, knees tucking between Megatron’s thighs, and pushed them apart slowly. The gentleness was surprising, but then he probably didn’t want to risk killing the silver mech before he’d properly had his fun. Starscream dug a claw into the seam of the black interface panel and began prying it loose, apparently quite enjoying the way his leader’s expression twitched at the discomfort. “Really, I wonder if you _ever_ opened this up on your own power. You always were such an uptight slagger. I can’t recall ever hearing of your interfacing with any of the crew.”

That was because those Megatron deigned to share intimacy with knew better than to blab their mouths about the fact. Starscream never had learned the importance of discretion, but that was alright – it made it a lot easier to see the attempted betrayals coming.

Unsurprisingly, the jet completely ignored his spike housing and went straight for the valve entrance, one finger nudging at the opening before wiggling inwards. Barely a moment went by before a second digit joined the first, the pair twisting and squirming within, prompting Megatron to groan.

It was not… entirely unpleasant. He had _permitted_ others to spike him before on rare occasions, and – provided that his partner was adequately equipped and even more adequately enthusiastic – he could even say that he had enjoyed the change of pace. That didn’t mean he was happy about just how smug Starscream looked right now, watching his leader’s face intently for any signs of reaction. And unfortunately, he wasn’t in any state to be schooling his expressions to neutrality, and the Seeker found everything he was searching for.

“You’re very tight, Lord Megatron.” The title was a mockery at this point, only tacked on for the sake of insult. “So dry, though… That’s no fun.”

_Oh, excuse me, Mighty Starscream – I am ever so sorry that my fluids are all over the ground_. As if his valve would produce lubricant right now. Bah!

“We’ll just have to fix that, shall we?”

Starscream reached for the wound again, and Megatron flinched when the fingers touched _inside_. Oh, apparently it was more than a flinch – the jet was laughing at him, now, and Megatron’s vision was dark. Had he just blacked out for a moment? Quickly resetting his optics, the silver mech growled.

“Poor dear, that looked like it hurt.” Starscream rubbed his now liquid-streaked fingers against one-another, purple and brown and several other colors mixed together. “Maybe this will make up for it?”

And then Megatron’s vision went black again, but it was so much better than having a hand prodding callously at his internals. Well, it was still _technically_ prodding his internals… But Starscream apparently knew how to put his hands to good use; the mech was doing things with his fingers that made Megatron’s spark skip a pulse. Then again, perhaps that was the injury…

A low, raspy chuckle came from just above him, and the Decepticon leader reset his optics again to see his Air Commander’s face right above his own. The hand was still down there, twisting and flicking and curling against the valve lining, but Starscream had shifted upwards for a better view of his expression. Then the dark face came down, and Megatron thought for a moment that the mech was going to kiss him. Even half-delirious, he should have known better.

Starscream bit and nipped and scraped with his dentals – Megatron’s lips, his cheek, nose, and the edges of his helm – and licked at the shallow marks. But he did not _kiss_.

The hand was still moving. The light stinging from the abuse on his face was so different from the fierce burn in his chest as to almost register as pleasure – it certainly did not in any way dampen the enjoyment between his legs. Even before Starscream had arrived, the silver mech’s temperature had been building to dangerous levels. At this point, Megatron figured he’d probably melt before he got that overload.

There was a quiet click from below, and Starscream was moving lower again, kneeling between the spread thighs. More vital fluids were swept up from the wound, causing the Lord of the Decepticons to make an odd sound – definitely of pain – and Starscream slicked his hand up and down own equipment before, smirking viciously, thrusting straight in.

Megatron howled – static and clicking and a gnashing of denta. The jet had prepared him a little, but it was far from adequate. Despite the comparatively-narrow hips, Starscream was not small – in stature or in _assets_. He wasn’t really large, either, but, well, it had been a while since the Slag Maker had let anybody fuck him.

“Oooh, you’re _exquisite_ , Mighty Megatron.” Starscream slowly pulled out and pushed back in, working his way further with each thrust until he stopped, firmly seated within. “Warm and soft and such a snug fit.”

Sharp fingertips danced around Megatron’s hip-plates, creating little pin-pricks of sensation that couldn’t quite be called pain.

“I’m going to enjoy this quite a bit, I think.” One side of his mouth quirked a little higher than the other, Starscream’s half-lidded gaze was dark and wanting as it ran over his leader’s face. It darkened further when it drifted down to the bleeding chest-plates. “It’s almost a shame you can’t move. And you surely would have by now, if you could.” The Air Commander accented this with a chuckle. “I suspect you’d have me shoved up against a wall, or pressed to the floor, writhing in agony or some such nonsense.” He pumped, once, and swiftly. “I can only imagine what this little scenario would be like if our circumstances were reversed. Would you fuck me, Lord Megatron? Or would you have called for Hook? It’s something I’m quite honestly curious about.”

The silver mech did not answer, and it wasn’t merely because he, himself, did not know for certain what that answer would be. Starscream had thrust into him again, and Megatron had already been having trouble speaking – right now, it was quite impossible. He was adjusting, to be sure, but that just meant that his mind was fogging over with pleasure in addition to the immense pain. The contrast was such to make his head spin.

Once he found his rhythm, the jet no longer seemed to care for speaking, thankfully. Megatron could merely melt into the sensations. The slide of the shaft against snug walls, the rippling effect his own minor convulsions had, the oddly freeing feeling of not being able to so much as change the angle of his hips – Starscream had complete control. That should not have aroused him as much as it did.

And then the Seeker wrapped a hand around his leader’s exposed spike, and the universe exploded. A twist of the wrist, flick of the fingers, re-angling of the arm, and a smooth swipe of thumb against the tip – it only took a few moments before the compounded sensations of a skillful handjob and a decent fucking sent him over the edge, and Megatron’s vocalizer sputtered something insensible.

He was surprised, when he came down from the high – and it had taken a while for him to do so – that his spark had _not_ , in fact, guttered out from the energy flare. And he was unnerved, just a bit, to see Starscream staring down at him so intently, every cable and joint in the Air Commander’s body utterly tense as he held himself still, not yet overloaded.

A grin, flash of dental-plates, and Starscream drew his hips back slowly in preparation to slam back in. And then the jet’s dark helm whipped to the side, a look of horror in the red optics. Megatron flicked his gaze to see what had drawn the mech’s attention so completely, and the warlord smiled.

Starscream’s hips jerked in to meet Megatron’s just before the jet’s helm exploded, bits of plating scattering about, energon spraying over the tyrant’s already filthy front, and he felt the gush of transfluid as his Air Commander had overloaded the same instant as he’d died.

“Hook: On his way. ETA: Seventy-three seconds.”

Megatron relaxed, still smiling, and watched as Starscream’s headless body slumped, still somehow remaining mostly upright. It was quite fitting, really, that he die kneeling before his master.


End file.
